A Strange Sort of Fate
by mylovelylions
Summary: Clara Deschamp never wanted to go to Hogwarts. In fact, she was only told about it five days before she was supposed to leave. Now, leaving behind Beauxbaton, she's forced to confront her worst fears. That is, if she doesn't get kicked out because of a certain troublemaker. George/OC
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Hiya, guys! Sooo... there's probably a very good argument on why I shouldn't be writing and posting this but I've had way too much fun to stop now so... Here it is. Hope you all like it and please review and follow if you do. Also I don't know anything, I just like to sometimes pretend I do._

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 _Chapter One: An Unfortunate Beginning_

There was not much to be said in the early morning of August 30th between the Deschamp family. Maybe a much more accurate way of putting it would be that there was not much that could be talked about between the Deschamps while they were sitting at the worn tables of the Leaky Cauldron. And that - although he would never say - was exactly why Mr. Deschamp had decided to place his two daughters and his lovely wife in the inn at all.

"This place is a pigsty," Annabelle, the youngest Deschamp murmured in french with a morbid sort of praise as her eyes swept over the high ceiled tavern. Dusty lamps hung from the beams, suspended above the heavily marred long tables below. Eying the blackened marks that colored the fireplace, Annabelle's lips curled down in disdain.

There was much that the Deschamps already disliked about England even though they had only stayed a week in it's cramped cobblestone streets. Even Mrs. Deschamp was straining to keep her usual, placid smile in place as a red-headed boy in billowing robes came down the stairs at a run, the wood beneath his feet giving a weary groan. They looked as if they would fall apart with the next downpour.

"That is…" Mr. Deschamps startling amber eyes flicked quickly to the door as a pair of witches roared inside, cackling about some wizard or another that they had bewitched to think himself a toad. Mrs. Deschamp's smile faltered even more and Annabelle gave a smirk. Quickly, Mr. Deschamp regained himself. "That is very unkind of you. England - England is very… very…"

"Quaint?" Mrs. Deschamp tried to help, squeezing her husband's much beefier hand in a sign of outward support.

The oldest and youngest Deschamp daughter shared a significant look of disbelief.

"I refuse to go, papa," Clara, the oldest of the Deschamp daughters said, her voice low and clear as she held her parent's gaze steadily.

A tick in Mr. Deschamps jaw went off. "We will not talk about it here, Clara." There was a slight pause as he sipped at a cup of tea, Annabelle eying the chipped rim with distaste. He didn't glance up as he set it down in its saucer carefully. "But you will go."

"I will not go to that horrid school-" Clara whispered viciously, leaning forward as her amber eyes lit to a fearsome gold, her slender fingers digging into the wood table.

"Ssshhhh," her father hissed reproachfully, glancing around as some of the patrons turned to glance curiously at where they were seated. He gave them a fake smile, nervously patting Mrs. Deschamps hand as she did the same, flashing a startling display of pearly teeth. His eyes cut back to his eldest daughter as Annabelle, tipped her head in the direction of the nearest, staring witch, waving delicately until he spluttered, turning away. "We will not draw attention to ourselves in this manner."

The sad truth of the matter was that they were drawing attention - just not in the way that Mr. Deschamp was so worried about.

Coming from a long line of gardeners, Mr. Deschamp was made of stockier constitution than his wife. His arms flexed menacingly beneath his robes and his handlebar mustache was much to glossy to not draw attention to the squareness of his jaw and the slight crook in his nose that came from being broken various times. Far from sitting behind a desk, the Frenchman looked like he should be in the care of some sort of dangerous business like wrestling hippogriffs or hunting down dark wizards.

It was an almost comical contrast to the willowy Mrs. Deschamp, her features delicate and her skin alabaster, contrasting sharply with her husband's sun-tanned hue. Wild, blonde, almost white curls framed an angular face with wide, forest green eyes and full lips. The tips of her ears peeked from beneath the wild mass as she reached a slender hand up to push it back, their tips oddly pointed.

Each daughter took after different aspects of their parents. While both were willowy, Annabelle bordered on looking too frail and breakable while Clara's body seemed to hold a quiet strength. The eldest daughter had inherited her father's striking amber eyes and bronzed skin while her sister took more towards their mother. The only thing that Clara seemed to have taken from Mrs. Deschamp was the wild, tangle of whitish curls and her delicately pointed ears which infuriated the girl to no end. Forget putting it up in a bun or anything other than perhaps a braid - it would all escape within the hour anyway.

But there were other things that separated the sisters. Clara's eyes wandered to the dark circles weighing down her sister's emerald eyes, watching in silence as her shoulders shook in a barely contained fit of coughing.

"Don't mind me," Annabelle wheezed out, turning away to clutch at the tabletop as she hacked. "Just getting rid of a lung."

" _Ici_ ," Clara whispered, pushing a glass of water to the waiting hands of her sister. Squaring her shoulders, she turned back to her parents who both looked pensive and resigned. "You cannot expect me to go to this - this place with just a word of warning a few days before the beginning of term!"

"Everything has already been arranged," Mr. Deschamp said immediately as if he were expecting this response, dragging his eyes away from his youngest daughter who had slumped tiredly back into her seat. "Beauxbaton has been notified-"

"What?" Clara hissed.

"We agreed that we wouldn't tell her that," her mother whispered venomously, pinching her husband's arm in reprimand as he gave her an apologetic glance.

"So you're telling me that all of this was planned - what? Weeks in advance?" With every word, Clara's rage grew, her wand suddenly weighing very heavily in her robe pockets.

"See? I told you this would happen if we mentioned that bit," Mrs. Deschamp whispered grumpily, shooting a final glare at her husband as he sighed.

"Well, obviously there was some advanced notice about my transfer to the Ministry of Magic," he grumbled, highly exhausted from the added effort of placating another female.

"How much advanced notice?" Clara questioned and Annabelle snickered under her breath, watching from beneath her lashes at the ongoing storm.

Mr. Deschamp's mustache twitched as he considered his next words carefully. "A few months."

"Months?!" Clara roared, drawing the attention of nearly the whole tavern. Nervously, Mr. Deschamp glanced around, giving what he hoped to be a dismissive wave of his big hand.

" _Nous ignorer,_ " he laughed before whirling back to his daughter. "Calm yourself before you make a spectacle of us all."

"Oh yes," Annabelle whispered sardonically, catching the gaze of a boy two tables down with a mess of thick, black hair and smudged, circular glasses as he stared curiously up from his porridge. "We wouldn't want to draw attention to ourselves."

The youngest Deschamp was all too aware of what they must looked like - the four of them so obviously French in both their manner and language. Their robes were trimmed in a silver, sparkling like stars from the depths of their midnight blue robes. Far from looking like traveling wizards and witches, they looked like the rich merchants that they were.

Pure bloods to the last drop running through their veins, the Deschamps knew exactly what it meant to have worked from the bottom up. Before the first headmistress was even a twinkle within a witch's mind, the Deschamps had already cared for the ground that Beauxbaton was built from. They planted the first fields of lavender. They nursed the first alder tree from the depths of winter all the way through the changing of the seasons - year after year until they had finally risen from mere gardeners to merchants and then finally into the Ministry of Magic.

That was why it was so hard for Clara to wrap her head around the fact that they were throwing it all away to move to - to some - Clara snarled, shooting her parents a stare of utter loathing.

All she knew was Beauxbaton. She had grown in the shades of the alder, stared up at the clear, warm sky through their leaves. When she closed her eyes, she could perfectly see the smooth walls of the chateau, the sky pinkening behind it as another day ended and she walked with her friends to her home. She loved Beauxbaton like she loved her small, little home with the garden in the back and the front porch with it's herbs and heavily cushioned chairs in the front..

Now, with the suddenness of a striking storm, her father had sprung their move to England and her subsequent transfer into Hogwarts - a school that Beauxbaton had held a warm rivalry with for years now.

"How could you -" Clara stopped abruptly, her eyes falling to the table and her brows furrowing as she tried to properly phrase her anger. Finally, taking a deep breath, she met her father's quickly softening gaze. "You've ripped away everything from us so casually - I don't understand -"

Blinking rapidly, she turned her gaze back to the table once more as she felt an uncomfortable burning in her throat.

"Clara, _mon lapin_ ," my father whispered, hesitantly his fingers reached out, curling around his eldest daughters much smaller ones. Quietly, he continued. "There are many hard times to come. Horrible, wicked things. I want you to be safe. I want you both to be safe."

"But - Hogwarts?" Clara whispered, her voice colored with obvious strain at the thought.

"Just last year a chamber was opened and five students were killed-" Annabelle piped up, sounding vaguely like an old hen clucking away at chicks.

"Killed?" My father reeled back, a look of utter bewilderment crossing his face as he turned to stare at Mrs. Deschamp who merely sighed. "What utter rubbish. Really I don't know how they come up with this - this tripe. Five children? Do they think the Ministry is full of blind, old mad men? Why we would have shut the school down-"

"So they weren't killed?" Annabelle rubbed at her nose.

"Paralyzed," Mr. Deschamp dismissed. "Merely put in a sort of coma for a spell. Missed all their classes - the lucky tykes. Why, I would have given my left arm to have missed Arithmancy for an entire ye-"

"Dear," Mrs. Deschamp reprimanded softly, stopping her husband mid-rant with a reproachful glance.

Looking slightly abashed, Mr. Deschamp cleared his throat, his eyes focusing on his eldest daughter once more.

"I think the point would be that they were put into those circumstances in the first place," Clara said calmly, meeting her father's gaze with a level stare.

"You," he said, smoothing his features out and pressing a comforting hand to Clara's. "You are going to be instructed under the greatest wizard that ever lived-"

"Getting rather ahead of ourselves, aren't we?" Clara heard Annabelle mutter under her breath. Mr. Deschamp ignored her while his wife gave her youngest a stern stare.

"There is no school in the world that is safer-"

"Not to mention one that will give you a better education, _mon lapin_ ," her mother added hurriedly.

Except for Beauxbaton, a small voice in Clara's mind whispered dejectedly but she didn't have the heart to say as much under the hopeful smiles of her parents.

"There we are," Mr. Deschamp chortled, taking his daughters silence as agreement. He glanced around, grinning broadly. "And while you are under the care of the wisest-"

"Kindest," Mrs. Deschamp threw in with delight.

Her husband continued on with gusto. "Witches and wizards to ever walk this planet, Annabelle shall be with us, receiving the best treatment that can be bought."

"Yippee," Annabelle grumbled, sulkily sliding further into her seat. The youngest Deschamp wasn't merely dejected about her future under her parents' attentive focus - she was crushed. Since she was old enough to grasp her wand, all she had dreamed of was going to school. Going to school like any other regular witch would. The usual pain in Annabelle's chest constricted until she felt unwanted tears well up which she quickly hid by taken a large gulp of tea.

"What a happy day," Mr. Deschamp beamed and Clara's eyes widened in obvious astonishment at the mere mention.

"What a busy day," Mrs. Deschamp corrected, pulling a rumpled piece of paper from her robes and smoothing it out on the table. Her eyes narrowed as she read over it. "So much to buy - They want her to have an owl, dear. Beauxbaton didn't use owls. How very… quaint. And the robes are rather - well, we must make do."

Their words became a distant drone of rising and falling voices as Clara's eyes fixed on her untouched breakfast - a funny mix of eggs, baked beans and hash browns with a half burnt piece of toast.

"Scabbers!" a red-headed boy with a startling array of freckles dotting his face screamed, racing around tables in search of something.

Clara watched dully, her mind glumly set on the fact that she would be going to this school - this Hogwarts whether she kicked and screamed or went without a fight.

"Bloody hell!" someone bellowed as upstairs there was a crash, sending brick dust raining down on their table.

"Bloody hell indeed," Annabelle grumbled in french, crossing her arms and glaring heavenward.

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 _Hey! So I hope that you all liked it! I don't really know how active this fandom is so I'm probably going to give it up if no one shows an interest. So, if you like it please review and follow/favorite!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two: Platform Nine and Three-Quarters_

There was something singularly loud about England, Clara thought as she stood at the edge of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, her eyes narrowed against the steam coming from the train. Located in the depths of Pyrenees, Beauxbaton was always near-silent with only the gentle click of shoes, the swish of silk and the murmur of voices to disturb the mountains. Now Clara couldn't seem to escape the noise.

"Now," her mother was saying breathlessly, rubbing a finger along the beak of a tawny, horned owl that sat importantly in it's cage. Hooting softly, it nipped at her nails with such affection that Mrs. Deschamp giggled. Although, both Clara's father and sister hadn't been able to come, her mother would have sooner flown back to France than stay at home waiting for her daughter's first owl. "Such a lovely creature - really should have gotten one sooner. Back to business - yes. Dear, you have to remember to take care of George-"

"Why must we name him George?" Clara inquired again for the millionth time it seemed, her exhaustion rising ever higher as her mother took up the usual stance of unflinching confidence.

"George is a splendid name, _mon lapin_ ," she began sternly, latching the cage door shut once more. "Very English. We are not in France anymore. We must do as the English do. We must speak as they do. Act as they do-"

"Name air owls George as ze doo," Clara said tiredly, slipping to English as her mother gave her a reproving glance.

"Vairy funny, _mon lapin_ ," Mrs. Deschamp seethed, before switching back to French. "It is funny to mock but I know that you barely have a trace of an accent - you're father worked too hard with you. If you are to speak, speak properly."

"Hello, wizards and witches of England," Clara said lamely in English, looking dully around at the bewildered glances of the passing people. "I have come to attend your funny, little school. I am very happy about it. Can you not tell?"

"Very good! _Etonnant_!" Clapping gleefully, Mrs. Deschamp moved forward with a wide smile, straightening errant hairs that had been swept into her daughter's face by the cruel breeze sweeping down the platform. Unsurprisingly to Clara, it seemed that it would storm before the day was out. "You make me so proud."

Clara said nothing, glancing around once more as the train gave a sharp whistle. A family down the way with striking red hair was scrambling about, hauling a rather impressive number of suitcases into the tight door of the train.

"It's all rather lively, isn't it?" Mrs. Deschamp suddenly said, her words breathless and her cheeks flushed with color as she stared curiously around. "They are all so very… So very… I do not entirely have a word…"

"They seem rather spoiled to me," Clara murmured, staring down the line as a boy in green robes snarled something fiercely up at a woman who appeared to be his mother.

"You cannot judge them all by one," Clara's mother muttered, looking disapprovingly down at the pair before quickly turning her daughter's attention back to her with a hand to her cheek. "Now, dear, you must be nice. You don't only represent yourself anymore but the whole of Beauxbaton. Be mindful of your manners and - and be careful."

There was a fear in her mother's eyes that Clara couldn't entirely shake - something that made all of the self-pity and anger slip away.

"I will write, mama," she whispered, giving her a soft smile before reaching forward to kiss her gently on the cheek.

"Oh please do - as often as you can but not often enough to interrupt your studies, mind you." Forcefully, she pulled her daughter into a hug, kissing both of her cheeks roughly.

"Arthur!" A red-headed woman bellowed frantically down the platform. "Arthur, what are you doing? It's about to go!"

"Oh dear," Mrs. Deschamp whispered, now frantically nudging Clara up the rickety train steps and into the train, hurriedly shoving luggage in after her as she yelled last minute advice. "Don't try and teach the teacher now, dear. Even if you've learned the lesson already at Beauxbaton. It'll just make it easier for you if you've already been taught it. And - and mind your food. I know you skip meals - now, don't try to deny it. You need your nourishment. Why, you're already skinny enough-"

"Mama, the train's starting up," Clara said gently as George was shoved into her hands, causing the owl to give a indignant hoot and spread it's wings in an obvious show of offense.

Glancing around frantically, her mother moved at a slow jog down the platform as the train jolted to life. "You must write, Clara-"

"I promise I will, mama-"

"And don't forget to feed George-"

"I read that they have an owlery, mama-"

"He needs love. He's of a very delicate temperament-"

"I love you, mama." Mrs. Deschamp had now broken into a full jog to keep up with the train.

"Oh, I love you too, dear - Don't forget to write!" She screamed, finally unable to keep up, her eyes wide with worry.

"You need to close that." Clara glanced up to see a boy in red robes with even redder hair stroll importantly toward her. Freckles shadowed his cheeks and - Clara blinked, staring hard at a rather shiny badge pinned to his robes. _Bighead Boy_ , it read in wide, swooping letters. Apprehensive, she stared up at him until finally, with a great, long sigh he reached around her and shut the train door. "Are you a first year?"

"Um - _oui_." Quickly, she stopped herself. "I mean to say yes. I suppose I am."

"Hm." His eyes narrowed on her for a second, his lips thinning her concentration. "Well, I am Percy Weasley. Head Boy." He pointed importantly at the badge that read _Bighead Bo_ y before sweeping a hand at the train's hallway in a general way. "If you need anything - no matter what house you get sorted into - I should be the one that you see first. I should now all the answers - an questions, comments, critiques…"

He let the sentence wander off as he eyed her. Clara blinked rapidly. He was talking very fast. And although her English was well enough it was taking her a considerable amount of time to fully grasp what he was trying to say. Although in the end it didn't seem to really matter as he cared on.

"You should find a compartment. There will be compartments for everything." With that he swept around her and went off to handle - Well, whatever Bighead Boys needed to handle on trains filled with witches and wizards, Clara supposed.

George gave an unimpressed hoot, eying the redhead as he swept away with contempt.

"I second zat," Clara murmured, letting some of the restrained English slip as she glanced down into the hallways of the train.

Moving toward the nearest corridor, Clara watched as lights lining the hall flickered on, illuminating the burgundy carpets. Holding George closely to her chest, she peeked farther in to see that sliding doors closed off the compartments from the hallways, an expansive window showing the whole of England as it passed by opposite the locked doors. Nervously, Clara tugged her luggage along behind her to the nearest compartment and tapped on the door softly.

Silence. The soft rustling of clothing and then a hesitant voice: "Um… Come - come in?"

Softly, the door slid open to reveal a rather chubby boy with buck teeth and a mess of blonde hair with wide, almost fearful eyes in red robes. For a moment, neither of them said anything, both unsure of how to proceed.

"This compartment - I'm sorry. I'm rather new -" Clara started in awkwardly, inching forward. "May I - Is there perhaps an opening that I might-"

"Oh!" the boy exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "Oh! You want to sit - sit here with me?"

Clara glanced around, a bit taken aback before meeting his gaze once more with a smile. "Very much so, if you wouldn't mind."

"Mind? Blimey!" Quickly, he reached forward, hoisting her backs into the half-filled luggage racks over a window before Clara could say anything. Grinning, he stuck out his hand. "Neville - Neville Longbottom." Pointing to his red robes, he shut the door to the compartment. "Gryffindor - you said you were new?"

Hesitantly, she sat on the plush seats across from him, still clutching George to her chest as he eyed the boy suspiciously. "Er, _oui_ \- I mean yes. My family just moved here from France and - What on Earth is that?"

From within the depths of his robes, Neville had pulled out a rather large toad which gave a hearty croak as it emerged. The boy blinked. His toad blinked. "Oh this? This is Trevor. My toad. Bit clumsy - get's lost a lot."

"Oh," Clara said lamely and there was an awkward moment of silence. Outside the wind had picked up, the combination of the chill air and the rain making the windows fog. Clara tried to desperately to think of something - _anything_ to say.

"You're new," Neville finally started slowly and she felt a knot loosen in her chest at the resumed effort of conversation. "Does that mean you've no idea about the houses?"

"Oh well, my papa told me a bit - I had to learn quite a lot before I could come." Clara left out the part about having to learn it in only five days. Her brain still ached from all the books that she had had to read.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

The conversation spluttered to a halt once more. Outside the wind gave a low moan. Clara's brows furrowed. It felt almost as if-

"Is the train slowing?" she questioned, trying to see through the fogged window. "Have we reached it already?"

Neville looked just as confused. Shoving Trevor back into his robes, he got up and opened the sliding doors to peek about the corridor. "No. Not nearly. We shouldn't even be halfway there at this point."

Brows furrowed, he moved back into the compartment, rubbing his sleeve along the glass to clear it of fog before looking out, so close that his nose squashed to the window. "I think - I think I see something."

Clara's brows rose. "See something?"

"Dark…" Neville muttered, pulling back from the glass with a befuddled expression. "Odd - but I guess - no - Harry. Harry and Hermione and Ron would know." With a decisive nod, he moved swiftly to the door. "Be right back. I'll go ask some friends."

"Should I -?" She was already half out of her seat before she stopped, sinking back down at Neville's flippant wave of the hand.

"Only be a second." And then he was gone.

Clara gulped, watching the corridor lights flicker. In his cage, George shuffled uneasily.

"Oh yes, this seems very safe," Clara grumbled softly to George who gave a hoot of agreement, his eyes flicking watchfully along the bit of corridor that they could see.

The minutes seemed to tick by. Neville still wasn't back. A deep knot tightened in Clara's stomach, making her feel more and more anxious by the second. The wind howled. The train moaned. The lights flickered once more.

"I'll be right back," Clara whispered to George as he gave a distressed hoot as she set his cage to hang on a hook beneath the cargo.

Swiftly, she peered into the hallway. If Neville had found his friends then he would surely know what must be going on - and if not that then he would have some shred of guesswork. Besides, Clara consoled herself, sneaking glances into compartment after compartment, she would feel better in a group of people.

The lights flickered once more and Clara stumbled, hitting her shin on a trunk that had been left in the hall.

She staggered on just as the train came to sudden stop, sending her flying into the wall. Someone in one of the compartments gave a soft scream.

The lights went off. Fear coiled inside her, sending her heart into a mad dash as she fumbled with the nearest compartment handle, her fingers clumsy and clammy as she glanced frantically around. The halls had gone eerily quiet and a sudden, bone-numbing chill had seeped into the air. It was so dark that Clara could barely see her own hands as she futilely tugged at the latch.

"Blimey, just let them in already, George," a voice grumbled from the other side of the door and Clara was suddenly falling forward as the person - George - did just that.

"Oof!" Both of them went tumbling back, barely landing safely on one of the compartment seats in a tangle of limbs.

" _Je suis desole!_ " Clara gasped, trying desperately to right herself but only succeeding in tumbling backwards again.

"Wha-?" Strong hands grasped her waist, barely catching her.

"Sounds like we got a female," a voice said from somewhere to her left as Clara took a breath, her hands going to someone's shoulders.

"Female!" Another voice gasped gleefully.

"They come to us even in the dark," the first voice sighed as if he was asking: what can we do?

"Will you two shut it?" Clara blinked up at the deep voice, her eyes narrowing on the man that she was sitting on. Even in the dark she caught the flash of teeth as he grinned. "Didn't catch your name."

"Clara -" His hands squeezed her waist reassuringly. She was suddenly all too aware that her hands were still situated on his shoulders and that she was still on his lap. "You can let me go now."

"Ice cold~" two voices sang softly in the darkness.

"Yeah. Just a…" His words wandered off into silence and Clara had the sudden notion that she would much rather stay where she was. Her palms flattened against his shoulders as she leaned closer to him, her eyes pulled to the compartment door as if by threads. Her teeth chattered, her body shrinking down until she was pressed so tightly to the boy that she had fallen onto that she could feel the wild beat of his heart beneath his close.

Standing in the doorway was a figure so tall that it nearly reached the ceiling, it's robes fluttering about it's body as if they were three sizes too big. No one moved. No one even breathed. In that moment it was as if the very air in Clara's lunges was being sucked right out, her whole body numbing as she stared unblinkingly at the figure.

Every second was eternal and suddenly it felt as if Clara was falling down a very long, very dark well - the light seeping away from everything until she was suspended - stuck in that loop… Falling… Falling… _Falling_ …

Clara blinked, drawing in a breath of air. The figure was gone.

"What the bloody hell was that?" the voice to her left whispered and Clara thought she heard a strain there, as if he was shaken to his very core.

The lanterns flickered back to life, at first a bit unsteady and then evening out as the Hogwarts Express rattled back to life. Clara finally caught a glimpse of the boy she had fallen into. His hair was a mess of red, freckles playing along his nose. His jaw was strong and there was a tip to his lips that held some mischief even as he drew a shaky breath, his honey eyes still on the half-open compartment door.

"I don't know but I don't want that git coming back anytime soon." The boy blinked, looking down at Clara as if he was seeing her for the first time. Briefly, his ears went scarlet.

"This, George, is what we call a female - female say hi to George." Clara blinked glancing over to see a boy that looked exactly like the one that was apparently named George. _Twins_ , a small voice in her head whispered and then an snider one chipped in _. Oh very good. Next we'll learn the alphabet._

"I um - 'm vairy zarry," she fumbled, going scarlet as her words muddled together, an unwelcome accent drenching the English. Unsteadily, she leapt to her feet, straightening her clothes. "I mean - I'm very sorry. I was - my compartment friend - Neville - he just left. And then the train stop - stopped and the light… My name's Clara Deschamp."

They were staring at her like she was crazy. Her mouth slammed shut.

"You're very attractive," a boy sitting across from the twins with dreads and a warm, chocolate complexion suddenly said. He blinked as if suddenly realizing that he had said anything at all. " I mean - in a completely, er non-sexual way. Like intellectually attractive. You look like you could get down and dirty with some reading. Ha ha. Like you could do my homework. Not that I would ever-"

"Please stop," the other twin that wasn't the one that Clara had fallen into said, looking pained. "You're hurting more than yourself."

"Don't mind Lee," George said, giving her a wink that sent Clara blushing all over again. "We found him talking to himself in a corner one day and decided to be nice to him-"

"Can't get away from him since," his twin sighed, eying the disgruntled boy with disdain.

"We attract the loopy ones," George confided and Clara couldn't help but return his grin with a shy smile and his grin widened. "That's better."

Just then, the door jerked open, revealing a rather easily looking boy in green robes, his hair a whitish blond, panting.

"Oh joy," George's twin said, obviously feeling the exact opposite as he eyed the boy. "Malfoy's come to say hello."

"Or wet himself," Lee grumbled.

Looking simultaneously horrified and disgusted, Malfoy slammed the compartment door shut.

"Bye then," George said, his eyes still on the door before they flicked back to Clara. "Don't hang around that lot, if you can, Clara love. He smells like eggs and has a tendency to lie."

"Plus we read it in the stars that he's supposed to have a bad hair day sometimes this week," his twin threw in sagely, nodding. "Wouldn't want to be associated with that mess, would you?"

"You knew I was new?" Clara questioned, quirking a brow as the twins smirked knowingly.

"We never forget a pretty face," they said in unison.

"I-" Just then, a flash of blonde hair and red robes caught Clara's eyes, sending her rushing to peer around the corner and into the corridor. Sure enough, she watched as the boy ducked into the compartment that she was pretty sure was hers. Throwing an apologetic glance over her shoulder, she hurriedly said: "Thank you so much and I really am sorry. Must be going." and rushed off down the hall for Neville.

Gasping, Clara turned sharply into her compartment, greeted by a soft hoot from George - she blinked, thinking of the human George briefly - and a shocked stare from Neville.

"Blimey, where have you been?" He stared at her, drawing Trevor the Toad out from his robes. "And why do you look so red?"

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 _Please review! My feelings are getting a little hurt, I'm embarrassed to admit._


	3. Chapter 3

_A lot has happened in the last year that I've been gone - I've graduated technical training, moved to Japan, gotten engaged to the most loving man in the world, and lost my father who was the most loving man before him. Forgive me for that late update._

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 _Chapter Three: The Sorting_

There something singularly awful and exciting about standing in front of millions of students in a line of witches and wizards that were younger than Clara by two years, waiting to be sorted by a hat that had just sang to them. In Beauxbaton, there were no houses. The day that you entered the chateau, you were put into classes by your last recorded magical class.

Clara had never been somewhere… Her lips tipped down as the students in front of her shuffled forward, her eyes sweeping around the great hall. Dirty wasn't a good word to use. Worn, maybe? Yes. Her lashes fluttered uncertainly as she flicked her eyes to the polished wood that poked out between an array of plates, all a dull white. Everything was so dizzyingly different here than in Beauxbaton, Clara thought,shutting her eyes tightly. Four long tables with benches instead of proper seats ran all the way to the great doors at the end of the hall.

In France, there was always a cold, quiet that encompassed every room. Small, circular tables had made up the Beauxbaton great hall covered with baby blue tables and china to match. Instead of stone walls ringed with gargoyles holding bowls leaping with flames, the walls of her old school had been barely walls at all, made nearly completely of glass. Chandeliers had gleamed with light above the females of Beauxbaton. Now - Clara glanced up at the inky sky above that made up the ceiling of Hogwarts - candles hung suspended in the air, flickering against the night sky above.

It made the small, French girl strangely disquieted. There had never been very much noise in Beauxbaton, the very atmosphere warranting the females to speak softly. But here, no one ever seemed to be quiet. Everything was so loud. A flash of thunder lit the small windows lining the great halls wall, making the chatter of the British students in the hall swell in a sort of contest. Clara's head throbbed painfully.

Up ahead, Clara caught sight of a long line of wizard and witches, all in colorful robes, most with a curious twinkle of mischief and amusement. Split between the two long tables was a stiff chair which held a wizard with long silver hair that seemed to blend into his beard. Sparkling eyes peered above half-mooned glasses.

Sitting in front of the long table was a small stool with a rather stout women standing beside it with a cheery smile and a rosy tint to her cheeks,calling forth nervous student after nervous student to sit on the stool and have a raggedy hat thumped on their heads.

"SLYTHERIN!" A small slit formed in the dusty fold of the hat and a thick, old voice exclaimed from the fabric. Clara flinched at the sudden roar that came from a table to her far left, all in green robes as the boy bounded from the chair.

"DESCHAMP, CLARA!" At first, Clara didn't move from her place facing the chair, unsure of how to proceed as her ears were bombarded by a million yells.

"GRYFFINDOR!" Somone to her right shouted.

"SHUT UP, DINGUS! YOU COULDN'T TELL MERLIN FROM A MUGGLE ON YOUR BEST DAY!"

She hardly knew what they were saying, so quickly were they hurtling insults at each other.

"Come along, dearie," the stout woman whispered with a friendly smile, motioning to the stool. Cautiously, she obeyed. If she was being honest with herself, the whole procession of the sorting and the houses confused her. Dismally, she remembered her readings on Hogwarts. Although they were sorted into different houses, all students were given the same courses. In fact, Clara had found that the sorting was more to determine...constitute.

Briefly, Clara caught the scent of burning cloth and old books before a loud voice sprang clearly through the hall:

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

The table in front of her, all its occupants wearing honey yellow robes, burst into cheers, a few jumping up in their excitement.

"Oh dear - welcome," the pudgy woman gushed pulling her up into a warm hug that Clara honestly didn't know how to respond to. The scent of earth and warm, sunkissed flowers reached her, Clara's nose twitching as the urge to sneeze came over her, the top of the witches hair tickled her nose. She was a whole head shorter. Finally, with one final squeeze, she pulled away, her eyes watery as she motioned for Clara to go toward the still cheering table. "Just over there. Just over there. Don't be shy now."

A flash of fiery red hair caught her eyes as she made her way tentatively to the table. She blinked, sitting at the long table directly beside her own were witches and wizards in red and right in there midst were the two twins that she had met on the train. Slowly a smile formed on George's lips - Clara was 90% sure it was true because his robes were slightly more wrinkled, especially around the collar and tie - his brother grumbling something to the dark skinned witch beside him. An odd sort of warmth ran through her as he sent her a wink, mouthing something that looked suspiciously like: don't worry, Clara love. We'll convert you to the dark side still.

It was the sort of warmth that came from finally recognizing someone in a sea of strange faces.

"Why isn't she speaking?" Clara blinked again, her attention immediately snapping to the table that she was now standing at.

"Well, maybe it's because you're staring at her, you big baboon," a girl with flaming, red hair and the strangest pair of blue and green eyes that Clara had ever said quipped.

"That's not nice!" Another girl with big brown eyes and a yellow, sunflower bow in her curls scolded, making room beside her as a boy with equally curly brown hair sat beside her, looking slightly wide-eyed with dejection. "You look nothing like a monkey, Archie."

"But she said I did," he whispered back, clearly unconvinced as the ginger girl rolled her eyes, scooting over to make room for Clara which she quickly took, becoming uncomfortably aware of the fact that all eyes and smiles had turned her way.

"Ignore the Vansteen siblings," the ginger confided to her, pouring her a cup of steaming cider and taking a tray of cookies from a person just a few seats away from her.

"You shouldn't ignore anyone!" the witch with the bow gasped, peering around her brother to give Clara a concerned glance. "It's mean."

"Isolation is the worst possible punishment," a Hufflepuff sitting across them nodded, spreading jam across a biscuit. He smiled brightly at Clara. "Jam and toast?"

"Um, no - no thank you." Clara had never been so -Well, honestly bombarded by kindness - in her whole life.

"Well, what are you lot waiting for?" the ginger demanded, glaring down the line of curious witches and wizards. "Give her some food and introduce yourselves. She's obviously a -" Her eyes cut to Clara. "I'm sorry. You look a might too old to be a first year."

"Fifth year -"

"Oh goodie!" Bow-Witch exclaimed, clapping excitedly and slapping her brother who was still staring sadly at his empty plate. "Did you hear that, Archie? She's a fifth year. We can show her around -"

"I don't think-" another boy across from her started, looking up from a worn paperback.

"We saw her first!" the girl retorted furiously. "You should have spoken up sooner, Callum instead of reading over that stupid little, muggle book again. You've already read it fi-"

"MUGGLES ARE JUST AS SIGNIFICANT TO OUR WORLD AS WATER IS TO THE MER-" the bespectacled boy bellowed, slamming his book so hard against the table that nearby silverware and plate jingled in protest.

Down the table, there was a splatter of, "hear, hear," along with some groans and grumbles. Obviously this was a well tread upon subject.

"Here we go," the ginger beside her grumbled and the bowed witch sighed, setting a hand beneath her chin as the bespectacled wizard stood, face reddening.

"Move aside Cornelius Fudge; we have a representative," Archie murmured.

"I REFUSE TO LET TYRANTS AND TROLLS RUIN THE GREAT NAME OF THE MUGGLE!" The bespectacled boy roared on, sticking a finger in the air as he stared to the sky. "Sure their funny heating systems are so numerous that you may think - hey, are these funny little panted creatures ever warm? - but it is up to us to understand. And to help them find other means to warm their food because frankly they possess too many."

"Ah," the bowed witch suddenly gasped, the wizards paperback in her hands. She glanced at Clara with an understanding smile, showing her the cover filled with odd little cartoon drawings of metal boxes. "He's moved onto _Toasters, Heaters, and Other Wonders of the Heated World_."

"Better than that - what was it called?" The ginger witches brows creased in thought. "Kitten Island? Bunny? Animal something."

" _Playboy_ ," Archie said knowingly, nodding sagely - and a bit dreamily.

"I'm so sorry to say this now," Clara started hesitantly, silencing even the bespectacled future Minister of Magic. "But I have no clue what any of your names are."

A smile brightened all the faces surrounding her.

"So glad you asked, love," the ginger beside her grinned, throwing an arm around her shoulder.

"We should really get nametags for all the new lads that come in," a wizard a few seats away said knowingly and a couple nodded in agreement.

"Name Tags would take away the personal touch, Richard," the bowed witch said before smiling warmly and sticking a hand out to Clara. "Molly. Molly Vansteen."

And so it began.

* * *

 _Alrighty then. So I know it's been a while - about a year or more, yeah? - so I just wanted to put this chapter out as a sort of call to port. Is anyone out there? Do people still care? If you want more please let me know either by follow/favoriting or reviewing. Everybody should know how much I love reviews._


	4. Chapter 4

_I don't own anything! If I did, I feel like I would have more followers on instagram. Please follow and favorite! If y'all can give me a little more love, I'll be sure to get the next chapter out by the end of this week._

 _Thank you to all those to commented on my little melt down last post. I was still very much feeling the passing of my father. Now, goodbye to the sadness and hello to..._

* * *

 _Chapter Four: Through the Barrel in the Middle_

Clara's head spun dully as she made her way doggedly up the stairs in the midst of a great sea of honey yellow - badgers, a small voice whispered knowingly in the back of her head and she winced. Aside from the massive amount of information that had just been dumped into her head (which consequently left her skull thumping painfully) Clara Deschamp was actually feeling rather… well, at home. It was absolutely ridiculous. Beauxbaton had felt like home as well - Clara dropped the thought, flinching as another sharp pain jabbed at the back of her skull.

"Oi," the ginger girl (whose name was Keela McKinnon) snapped to a curly haired boy who had the same badge as the ginger haired boy that Clara had met on the train. Well, aside from the fact that his said Head Boy in big scrolling print... But it looked very much like that other boys badge. In fact, Clara noticed him leading a mass of snickering wizards and witches in red robes. She wondered vaguely what the difference was. "We can give Clara the history later. Can't you tell the girl's sucked up as much information as she can handle?"

"But thank you so much for your wonderful retelling of Helga Hufflepuff's lovely ways," Molly piped in, giving the dejected looking head boy and warm smile.

"Absolutely rousing," her brother threw in.

"You left out how she gave safe passage and work to the house elves," Callum said dully, glancing at the many portraits that lined the corridor walls. In his hands, he still carried the thick, worn paperback.

Clara was barely listening. Her eyes had caught on the group of red robes that was slowly making its way up the stairs as the Hufflepuffs seemed to be descending toward - well, Clara didn't really know. She assumed the basement. Suddenly a pair of amber eyes caught her, a mischievous twinkle lighting their depths as he paused. His smile grew as he glanced at the mass of Hufflepuffs chatting quietly around her.

Suddenly, George's brother appeared beside him, a knowing smirk on his face as he threw an arm over his brother's shoulder. For a moment, both of them chatted amiably before both turned back to give her another once over. Clara's eyes narrowed. She wasn't too sure about that loo-

"BYE, CLARA LOVE!" George howled, leaning over one of the railings to grin down at her as she jumped. Her face went red as she stared up at them, her heart beating erratically.

"WE MISS YOU ALREADY!" Fred moaned, clawing at his heart as he stared at her in mock agony.

"DON'T BE AFRAID OF THE BADGERS, LOVE!" George assured her. "WE'LL STILL MAKE A GRYFFINDOR OF YOU YET!"

Clara moaned, even as a surprised giggle burst from her lips. All around her, her fellow house members murmured to each other, laughing at the twin's antics as George let out a wail, shuffling away with a sobbing Fred in tow.

"It's so hard seeing our baby go away," she thought she heard one of the twin cry in mock agony.

"You have to be strong, Freddie," George whispered, breaking down in his own fit of tears before they finally dragged themselves back to their group.

"How on earth do you know the twins?" Keela questioned, a note of astonishment gracing her tone.

" _Dans le train_ -" Clara spluttered, flustered before quickly translating it over to english. "I mean - on ze train. I - I -"

Clara stopped as she remembered falling into George's lap. That would be rather awkward to have to explain.

"Dreamy," Molly breathed, staring after the twins with a sort of glazed expression.

"Gross," Archie said with obvious repulsion. Beside him, Callum had turned all of his attention to the portraits, staring rather hard at one of a mother cradling her babe.

"The twins are a natural riot here," Keela confided to her as they continued on to their dorms. "They're-"

"Rebels," Molly gushed, her cheeks reddening.

"I think I might vomit," Archie said faintly.

"Oh, everybody loves a good rebel, Archie," Keela said, sending him a wink that made his face go red.

Clara's eyes furrowed as the siblings started to squabble. Rebels? The one thing that had been very rare in Beauxbaton was disorder. Everything had a place and everyone knew it. Organization. A system. Clara didn't particularly know if getting involved with such open trouble would be a good idea.

"Alley-oop!" the curly haired head boy sang and Clara blinked, finally glancing around. They were in a darkened corner of a corridor that wasmostly brightly lit with torches. Portraits of food hung jovially on the walls and the smell of pumpkin and fresh baked bread filled the warm little hall. At the moment, the mass of Hufflepuff was standing before a stack of barrels and crates shoved into a nook rather disorderly.

Stepping forward, the head boy tapped out a swift rhythm on a barrel two from the bottom and wedged in between two others. The boy smiled broadly as the lid swung open and a few gave a cheer. One after another wizards and witches began to crawl through. Each barrel was stout enough to fit two children at a time, perhaps three and Clara stared in wonder as one after another they went through until it was her turn.

"On you go," the head boy said warmly, gesturing for her to make her way in. Unsure, Clara peered inside, seeing a warm flickering light at the end of a long tunnel. She had no choice. And frankly, she was curious herself. Stepping forward, she ducked down and began to crawl through on her hands and knees. Beneath her fingers to felt the floor squish softly and she suddenly realized that the tunnel was made of enchanted moss, soft and warm to the touch with an almost fairy tale sparkle to it as she went along, lighting her way just enough.

As she drew closer to the light, she caught the warm rabble of people and the sweet smell of logs in a fire and herbs and plants. She breathed in deeply, closing her eyes for a second before making her way quickly out of the tunnel.

Clara's breath caught, her eyes widening as she straightened and finally got to look around. The Hufflepuff common room was low-ceilinged with a nicely worn wood floor and red-brick walls that held the heat coming from a series of fireplaces snuggled into the walls. Vines tickled along the walls, random, beautiful flowers blossoming and budding along it. All along the ceiling, potted plants were fanned out on dainty hooks. As Clara watched the ceiling rippled and a light sprinkle rained down on a portion of plants.

Warm, yellow tapestries hung along the wall, tickling the circular windows that ringed the very top of the walls and through them Clara caught glimpses of midnight starlight catching along grass and the yellow tips of dandelions.

Framed off by heavy columns, the vast common room stepped down into another tier with a series of couches with plush cushions and fluffy blankets rolled neatly into wicker baskets. Rows and rows of them fanned out from a flickering stone fireplace. Clara saw a few Hufflepuffs, laughing and chatting animatedly to each other as they grabbed up a pole and closed their eyes for a brief moment. When they opened them a plump marshmallow would be ready to roast or fruits or veggies. Some even were huddled around a dutch oven or a pie iron trying to make some delectable snack or other. All around them, the ceiling - far different from the main common room - beat quietly with starlight, the sky dark as ink. Somehow, Clara could see a huddle of trees around the campsite.

"How do you like it?" The smirk on Keela's face already told Clara that she knew the answer and a glint in her eyes spoke of her pride. Brash and bold, the Irish witch was wholeheartedly Hufflepuff.

" _Beau_ ," Clara breathed, still taking it all in. Her eyes had finally turned to her left, suddenly seeing that there was yet another tier, framed off and accessible from a small step down. Books lined the walls, all looking strangely worn. Lamps hung from the ceiling and stood gracefully beside desks and plush couches. Soft, honey rugs lay across the wood floors and in front of fireplaces.

"I'll take that as a good thing," Keela said.

"Oh, Clara!" Molly and her brother approached, a slice of bread with butter that still steamed from the fire held in her hands. "I thought you had already gone to bed. Would you like to? I know that being around all of these people - well, the first day is always hard."

"I -" If Clara was being honest she was absolutely exhausted even though her inner most self screamed for her to explore more. Finally, her eyes drooped, a part of her brain clicking off as she yawned. "Can wee zay tomorrow and explore?"

"Definitely bed, then." Keela nodded, leading the way as Molly gave her a shy smile and followed her brother over to the reading area where Callum was situated.

"I'll see you tomorrow then, Clara!" she said cheerfully, giving her a broad smile and a wave. "I'm sure we have some classes together."

Clara had spent so much time staring around at the common room that she hadn't noticed the two round, wooden doors that stood importantly at either side of the main common area - one with a depiction of a 1950's cartoonish witch holding a broom with a poof of blond curls and the other with a retro 1950's boys with a top hat sitting beside a niffler.

"Now, the doors are enchanted. Boys can't get in and if they try to our witch will give them a right talking to." Standing on the door, the the 1950's witch winked and gave a merry wave. "Another thing is that it can tell where you want to go - there are too many of us to stay in one room so once you touch the knob, it sorts out where you want to be. I'm going to head up to my room unless…"

"No," Clara said with a shake of her head and a tired smile. "Zat is vairy kind but I will just go to sleep. Thank you."

"I'll see you tomorrow then, Clara," she said with a soft smile before opening the door and shutting it softly behind her.

Taking a breath, Clara reached forward and did the same stepping into a room lit entirely by copper lamps and a roaring fire in the center of the room that exuded just enough heat to warm Clara pleasantly. A couch sat thickly in front of the fire, robust and plump with worn yellow fabric and a wicker basket with blankets on either side of it. The rest of the area was covered with a random assortment of rugs that - far from making it seem jumbled and odd - add a charming quirkiness to the room. Taking a look around, Clara noticed that her trunks were set beside the bed closest to her on the left. Tentatively, she stepped forward.

Far from lavish, the Hufflepuff dorm rooms were cozy and appealing in the cluttered way that a cherished home was. Her bed was placed snuggling along the wall of a nook big enough to allow for a desk as well as a dresser and a nightstand. Glancing around quickly, she realized that there were six little nooks in total, all circling around the fire. A half moon window sat back a bit in the wall and Clara was happy to see that the wall that her bed was placed against had plenty of book space. Hanging on the wall was a copper foot warmer and a plush, dandelion yellow rug sat just beside her bed which was made up of warm, honey sheets with a patchwork quilt thrown along the foot of it.

Balefully, Clara looked to her trunks. She wanted to unpack but… She rubbed her eyes, finally getting out her wand and waving it at her trunks which immediately sprung to action, unfolding themselves from the depths of her packs as the dresser opened in welcome. She had learned the spell long ago considering her families eagerness to travel. Yawning, she went over to the mouth of her little nook and unfastened the decorative rope that held a thick set of patchwork curtains that immediately slid closed, cutting her off from the rest of the room. As she turned, her bags slid calmly beneath her bed, leaving her a pair of striped pajamas that her mother had packed for her.

 _Mommy loves you,_ the letter read in sweeping text, open on her night clothes. _I thought they might not have fed you right so I packed a few treats. Be sure to write!_

"Oh bugger," Clara moaned, hopping out of her shoes and sliding out of her robes quickly. She spun, slipping on her slippers and she threw on the pajamas and went over to the chest of drawers.

Sitting beneath Clara's bras was a series of finely wrapped pastries bags all tied in bows. Clara sighed, a smile tugging at her lips as she set them on her desk. Her heart squeezed. Beauxbaton had always been close to home - she had never been this far from it. Desperately, she tried to choke back the sudden onslaught of tears.

"Oh, you coward," she said angrily in French, swiping at her eyes as she went to her bed and threw back the covers. "You're old enough to not need your mother to tuck you in."

But suddenly Clara felt very alone as she snuggled under the warm, thick blankets. Her eyes drifted to the light flickering along the cracks in her curtains. Yes. She felt very, very alone.

* * *

 _As always, I hope you like it! REMEMBER, the promise of another chapter only comes with some extra love (I prefer food but I guess reviews and follows/favorites will suffice.) I actually already have it typed up so all it has to go through is a couple revisions and it'll be golden._


	5. Chapter 5

_As promised, Chapter Five! Keep up the love, guys._

* * *

 _Chapter Five: The Boggart in the Wardrobe_

Clara stared around the Great Hall in consternation, the chatter of the various houses almost deafening as it echoed off the stone walls. It was mind-numbingly early in the morning and Clara rubbed her eyes limply. She had woken up that morning, eyes crusty from crying in her sleep and a bone deep ache that came from sadness through the night.

Feeling rather self conscious, she side stepped around a pair of rushing first years who were in near tears at being late. Brows furrowing, Clara pulled out her pocket watch. No. Definitely not late. They must have wound their watches wrong. Clara turned to tell them so but was met only by the sight of an empty corridor.

"You look like you're lost," came a deep voice from beside her, making her jump in surprise and whirl around to find George grinning down at her. Shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning down and tipping his head to the side, he gave her a long once over with those mischievous amber eyes of his.

" _Mon Dieu. Tu m'as fait peur_ ," she whispered, clutching her heart and giving him a shy smile. "I - I - Well, a couple of my roommates led me here but… I can't find the people that were with me yesterday…"

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen!" Came a dramatic voice and she turned to see Fred grinning down at her. "I thought Hufflepuffs were supposed to be the loyal ones in this bloody school."

"Leave it to Gryffindor to pick up the slack," a dark-skinned witch said as she walked forward to stand beside the ginger haired wizard. Clara stared at her in awe for a moment. It looked like she was built from something more sturdy than rock. Although her form was feminine, she could probably do more pull-ups and pushups than most of the wizards here. She flashed an array of pearly whites, offering Clara a small wave. "Angelina Johnson."

"Quidditch extraordinaire," Fred threw in helpfully, getting a playful push from the dark-skinned witch.

Clara glanced to George who had moved to stand beside her. The two seemed rather close. George gave a mock gag, rolling his eyes. Stooping down, he whispered softly, "They've been in love for years. Fred has pictures of her under his pillow."

"Well, well, well," a suave voice called, heralding Lee's approach as he slid in next to Angelina with a swathy smile and raised eyebrows. "If it isn't my love, my moon - The woman of my dreams -"

Angelina glanced around. "Yeah. Where did Katie go?"

Both twins howled in laughter and Clara couldn't help give a small giggle at Lee's dumbstruck expression.

"It hurts when you do that, Angelina. It really does." The dark skinned witch gave him a smirk before heading off to the Gryffindor table. Looking to Fred with a shrug, Lee smiled. "Katie's smokin' too though."

"You're an absolute pig, Lee," George drawled, his eyes flickering with affection before he turned back to Clara. "You can sit at the Gryffindor table, Clara."

"It's only right, really," Fred said lazily. "Rubbish that you were sorted into Hufflepuff."

"I like Hufflepuff…" Clara whispered, glancing nervously to the table in question. The feeling of not seeing or knowing where Keela, the Vansteens or even Callum had surprised her this morning. It was the kind of throat-tightening panic that came from being late to class or finding out that you were absolutely screwed on an exam. But not sitting at her own table only a day after she had been sorted into it…

"Hufflepuff's are a delight, Clara." George's eyes warmed as he patted her head. "Some more than others."

Something tight coiled around her heart, sending fire to lick up her face. Clara blinked, taken aback.

But just like that, George gave her a wink and turned away, throwing her a glance over his shoulder. "Live on the dangerous end of the road, Clara."

"It's rather fun here," Fred threw in, walking after his brother, both followed by Lee who sent her a smile.

For a moment, Clara shuffled where she was, glancing between the two tables. In all honesty, the prospect of sitting awkwardly through a breakfast where no one spoke to her - or worse, if they did and she had to make clumsy conversation - wasn't appealing in the least. She bit her lip. Perhaps she was making things harder than they needed to be.

Holding her bag tightly to her side, she rushed over to where the twins and Lee had sat, smiling shyly as she sat beside the dark skinned wizard.

"We knew you had it in you!" the twins cheered together, pouring her a cup of coffee which she accepted gratefully.

"It's more fun over here anyway," Lee confided to her.

"Not particularly because of the house," Fred shrugged.

"Only because of the company," George finished just as another ginger wizard with freckles plopped down opposite them.

Clara stared hard at him for a moment. She was sure she knew him - The glint of a badge caught her attention and she clapped, startling everyone around her and pointed to him in glee. "Bighead boy!"

Everything went silent. Silverware stopped clinking. Groups stopped talking. Clara slowly lowered her hand as the seconds ticked on, worry furrowing her brow. Had she been -

The twins roared, howling as they clutched their stomachs and their laughter slowly caught across the table. Clara stared, wide-eyed across the table at Percy, guilt and confusion mixing together as his cheeks reddened.

"Give her a greeting, Bighead Boy!" Fred guffawed, tears running down his face.

Percy slammed back from the table, his teeth gritting and his face scorching red as he glared down at his brothers with loathing. "Do your jokes have no end?"

With that he stormed away, leaving the table to slowly quiet down. Fred wiped the tears away, sniffing. "End to jokes? What kind of dull prattle is that?"

"I didn't mean to embarrass him…" Clara whispered, staring after the ginger haired wizard in concern. She glanced back to the twins, biting her nails anxiously. "His badge said Bighead Boy on the train-"

"Oh we know, love," George assured her, a wicked glint in his eyes. "We're the ones who made it say that."

"A shame he found out before he reached the school," Fred murmured.

"That's mean," Clara gasped.

"If you knew our brother, you wouldn't think so," Fred said, taking a bite of toast.

"He _is_ a bit of a prat sometimes," Lee remarked, digging into his breakfast.

"Most of the time," the twins corrected together.

Clara wasn't too sure. She glanced back at the hall entrance. He had looked rather hurt. Sighing, she glanced back to see a dark haired boy with round glasses drop into a seat beside George, his expression rather downtrodden. He was followed by another red headed wizard and a rather bushy haired witch.

"New third-year course schedules," George said around a mouthful of toast, grabbing up a piece of paper and handing it to the three. He paused. " What's up with you, Harry?"

Clara glanced curiously at the three, trying to see around Lee.

"Malfoy," said the ginger haired wizard. Clara's eyes narrowed he looked uneasily familiar. Strangely similar to Fred and George.

All eyes turned to the table farthest away from the Gryffindors just in time to see a boy with silver and cold grey eyes pretending to faint with terror to the great delight of all at the table.

"I don't understand," Clara said in confusion, turning back to stare at the others for help. The three newest arrivals looked as if they had just noticed her presence and she finally caught full sight of them all. "Ah! Je te connais ! 'Arry Potter!"

She looked to George as if by instinct for approval earning an amused smile.

"We forgot introductions," George said, smiling softly. "Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and our littlest brother, Ron Weasley."

"The cutest of the Weasley brood," Fred said, pinching his brother's cheeks as ROn tried to swat him away.

Clara nodded, grinning broadly at all three of them as George gestured to her. "And this is Clara Deschamp. Newest Gryffindor."

"Hufflepuff," she corrected, tugging at her gold and black scarf with a wide grin. "I've heard so much about you. My father is always talking-"

She stopped as a large, warm hand rested on her arm, glancing up at George.

"You're speaking in French," he said, smiling gently with a soft look in his amber eyes.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she whispered, blushing fiercely as she bit nervously at a piece of toast. She gave the three an apologetic smile. "It gets away from me."

The three gave her small smiles in return.

"Why iz zis white 'aired boy giving yoo trouble?" she said, mentally scolding herself again as she tried to reign in her accent. Absently, she noticed that George had taken away his hand.

"The dementors were on the train and Harry…" Hermione stopped, glancing at the boy in question as her lips tightened.

"I fainted," Harry said bluntly.

"I almost fainted," Clara said, taking a sip of coffee with a shrug. "I would have if it weren't for-"

Clara stopped, halting that train of thought abruptly as she choked on her coffee. She was about to say that if George hadn't been there, she would have fainted. The only thing that she meant - well, it was just nice to know that someone was there in the darkness. That she was being held and that she was fine and that someone else was going through the same fear and despair that she was.

"That little git," George said calmly, drawing the attention away from the flustered french witch with a small, knowing smile. "He wasn't so cocky last night when the dementors were down at our end of the train. Came running into our compartment, didn't he, Fred?"

Clara suddenly remembered the little boy with pointed features and that sour face. "Nearly wet himself."

"I wasn't too happy myself," George said, suddenly looking uneasy. "They're horrible things, those dementors…"

"Sort of freeze your insides, don't they?" said Fred.

Clara stared down at the swirling, creamy surface of her coffee. "They should have never been let out of Azkaban," she whispered, drawing the attention of the people around her. She remembered her readings on the fortress, shivering. "Evil should stay in it's nest."

"You didn't pass out, though, did you?" Harry said in a low voice and Clara frowned.

"Forget it, Harry," said George bracingly." "Dad had to go out to Azkaban one time, remember, Fred? And he said it was the worst place he'd ever been, he came back all weak and shaking… They suck the happiness out of a place, dementors. Most of the prisoners go mad in there."

"In France we don't allow those vile creatures," Clara said with disgust, hands clenching. "Father spoke to me of their ways - told me about how they are bred. In darkness, with nothing but pain and sadness to feed from. When they were first found, it was in the rubble of the North Sea where Ekrizdis lured, tortured and killed muggle sailors. It was infested with them."

Her lips tightened as she thought of all the suffering that must have occurred within those walls. It revolted her, made her stomach turn that she could have ever been close to creatures like that. A warm hand rubbed along her back, catching her by surprise at it's comfort.

"We'll see how happy Malfoy looks after our first Quidditch match," Fred said, quickly changing the subject as he cracked his knuckles menacingly. "Gryffindor versus Slytherin, first game of the season, remember?"

"Oh," Clara brightened, sitting up straighter as George's hand stilled on her back. "You have Quidditch?"

"You play?" George asked, interest sparking across his face and Clara laughed.

"I'm afraid not. I'm rather clumsy on a broomstick," she admitted. "But I am a great supporter."

"You'll have to come cheer us on," George said with a wink and she snorted.

" _Oui_. I will come to support my house," she said with a smile.

"CLARA!" The white haired girl jerked, spinning to see Keela making her way toward her with an exasperated look on her face. "We were looking for you all over the place! Have you been here all this time?"

"Oh," Clara blinked up at the fiery Irish woman. "I'm sorry. I didn't know… My roommates brought me here…"

Mismatched blue and green eyes turned to take in the whole table and she looked mildly impressed. "You certainly move up in the world fast."

"I didn't see you at the table and-" Clara searched for words as she gathered up her stuff and stood, feeling guilty all over again.

"We tempted her over to the dark side," George said with a wicked smile.

"Sure did," Fred said, munching on a piece of bacon. "Blame us."

"Oh, I'm sure you did, handsome," Keela said with a wink that sent Fred grinning.

"Well, they usually just call me Lee," the dark skinned boy said with a slick smile as Keela rolled her eyes.

"Clara!" came a breathless exclamation as Molly ran up to them, pink cheeked and trailed by her brother and Callum. "We were looking all over for you! We thought that - Oh. Oh my. Well - Hee hee. Wow."

The sentence ended in her cheeks flaming even brighter as she caught sight of George and Fred and burst into hysterical giggles, twirling a piece of hair around her finger and batting her eyes to the twins' confusion.

"Oh brother," Archie muttered, looking vaguely disgusted.

"Yikes," Keela echoed before turning to confide in Clara. "Let's get her out of here before she makes an utter fool of herself and ends up sobbing in the Lake again." She turned back to the table with a fake grin, her voice raising. "Well, it has been an utter delight-"

"If you mean being able to feast on your lovely curves then-" Lee started out.

Keela quickly cut him off, not even seeming to notice that he had spoken. "But we really must be off."

"Hufflepuff business," Archie said formally as he grabbed ahold of his sister to try and wheel her away as she spluttered out incoherent words mixed with desperate spurts of laughter.

"Thank you so much for letting me sit with you," Clara said hurriedly as the others ushered a near hysterical Molly away.

"You looked too much like a lost kitten for us to leave you there," George admitted with a wink sending Clara spluttering and flustered.

* * *

Clara set her stack of books heavily on the worn wooden desk, sighing heavily as she looked around with a wary eye. All day she had been running about in this godforsaken school - not to even begin with the fact that every time she stepped outside it was an onslaught of rain and mud. She was half expecting the old blocks that were keeping this building standing to slide away and for there to be nothing more than storms and rubble.

Keela and the Vansteens had been sending her enchanted letters all day and they had been able to have lunch at her table but they had separated early in the day due to the fact that Clara had actually been bumped up to sixth year classes at the behest of Albus Dumbledore. Apparently, Beauxbaton curriculum was a year ahead of Hogwarts - a fact that Clara was a bit bitter about.

However, there did seem to be a few classes that Hogwarts deemed itself to be high above…

Clara stared begrudgingly stared down at the scrap of parchment. Transfiguration (Tuesday and Wednesday classes) along with Herbology and… Defense Against the Dark Arts which happened to be Monday and Friday. The first two, Clara found to be a bit ludicrous. Beauxbaton had a full herbal garden slickly named the Queen's Court and Transfiguration was one of the main charms of the French school. Beauty was definitely in the eye of the beholder and whenever possible Beauxbaton's inhabitants put whatever magic they could to the pursuit. Transfiguration was a main route.

Defense Against the Dark Arts however…

Clara felt like something very hot and uncomfortably moist was running along her spine as she glanced up to find a very real, very large dragon skeleton hanging suspended from the ceiling with a cauldron just a bit away.

Clara Deschamp felt absolutely and completely out of her element.

"Well, look who it is!" came an amused voice from behind her. Keela strolled up with a smirk. "Here to join the savages, I see."

"Don't be mean, Keela." Archie was short behind, his curls tousled by the wind. "She's been moaning about you all day, Clara. Think she's fallen for you."

"Oh, shut it," the Irish Woman snapped, slapping his shoulder with a slight blush. "I'm a cold hearted witch. I care for no one and feel nothing."

"I've missed you too," Clara said, slightly distracted by a sudden movement from the staircase that led down into the classroom at the very front. The whole area was rather archaic.

"Of course you did, love," Keela said with a smirk. "I'm a bloody riot."

"Speaking of riots," Archie mumbled, his eyes turning to a spot over Clara's shoulder.

"Well, well, well," a deep, sarcastic voice rang out, smoothly coming to a stop beside Clara. "If it isn't Archibald Winston Vansteen."

The smile that George was wearing honestly scared Clara a little bit. It was a tight one that made his amber eyes that usually burned so bright, seem cold and there seemed to be a stiffness to his shoulders that didn't seem to entirely fit him. It was like he had put on an ill-fitting suit.

Standing across from him, Archie's cheeks reddened, his eyes narrowing as he stared the redhead down, his gaze sharpening even more as Fred slid beside his brother.

"Fred. George," he said stiffly with an air of distant cordiality. "How's your day going?"

"Yikes," Clara heard Keela murmur as both of the twins smiled in unison.

George's eyes turned to Clara and a bit of warmth seeped back into them as he leaned down to her level. "Did Archibald here tell you that he's a chaser on the quidditch team?"

Clara's brows went up as she broke into a smile. "Archie!"

"It's really not-" Archie's cheeks were redder than ever as he stared rather sharply at the twins.

"Dodges every one of our bludgers," Fred quipped, his voice tight even though he was still smiling.

Clara blinked, suddenly becoming aware of the uncomfortable tension in the air that seemed to be radiating between the twins and Archie.

"Oh not this bollox again." Keela rolled her eyes heavenward. "Every bloody year-"

"We know you're enchanting your broom, you ogre loving twat," Fred suddenly said with such venom that Clara jumped.

"Because that's the only way that I could be missing your daisy soft throws?" Archie's words dripped with sarcasm as the twins gasped in disbelief.

"The only thing that's soft around here is you, Vansteen," George growled.

"It sounds like you're just scared that the Hufflepuffs are going to beat your behinds like your mother used to when you were babes," Archie snarled right back, his eyes lighting.

"What utter tripe," Fred rolled his eyes. "I can't even make up a proper response-"

"That's a new one. Usually we can't get you to shut your trap at all-"

"Better than not being able to open it to even confess-"

Archie's ears went red, his hands clenching. "I look forward to the day that we beat that smug little smirk-"

"Never," both of the twins said in unison sounding rather bored and the curly haired boy huffed before George continued on alone. "And for your information our mother never stopped beating us, Vansteen."

"We'll beat you to the dirt this year, Weasley," Archie retorted, nearly fuming with anger and putting so much emphasis on the name that both witches cringed.

"Which one?" they replied in unison.

A particularly wet cough broke any further interaction as a rather bedraggled wizard slouched down the stairs and to his desk, running an eye over the by now full classroom. He was a shabby wizard that looked rather scrawny and a bit like he had drank too much sherry and was still recovering.

"Please - I see a few of you have your books out - I would like you to put them all away. Out of sight," he said with a small smile and a wave of his wand that sent all the chairs flying back and turning his gaze to stare pointedly at the twins and their small group.

"Talk to you in a bit, Clara Love," George said softly, nudging her shoulder softly before following his brother across the room to where most of the Gryffindors sat.

Fumbling slightly to regain herself, she looked around and found that a boy with wavy blonde hair had sat beside her and was staring up at her with a rather expectant (awkward) smile. Clara threw a desperate glance to Keela who was already seated beside a still-fuming Archie who mouthed, sorry with a guilty glance.

"Go on," he said encouragingly even though she was already sitting down, shoving her books into her bag hurriedly. "Pop a squat."

Clara winced, giving him a tight smile before blinking in surprise and consternation as he scooted closer to her, his smile growing.

"You smell nice," he stated and Clara felt an odd sort of tingling rub up her spine as her chest tightened and she tried to move away without being noticed. "Don't say much, huh?"

"Um, thank you," she whispered, pointedly turning back to the front to catch Professor Lupin's final words.

"...Need your wands," was all that she got and she looked around in confused consternation as chairs squealed as they moved back and wizards and witches began to file out of the room.

"My name's Kenneth Towler, by the way," the wizard that she had been sitting by said rather eagerly as he shouldered in closer to her.

"Oh, um," she searched for something more to say before forcing a pained smile. "That's nice."

"There she is." Keela and Archie were waiting closer to the door as Clara shuffled in, finding the other students milling about a rather cluttered room that held a rather impressive wardrobe that wobbled and banged about sending the students into murmurs. Clara hurried over to the pair, dashing away from the rather uncomfortable presense of Kenneth Towler.

"That wizard is a bit…" Clara couldn't find the right word.

"Loopy," Archie said dully, staring across the room at the boy in question.

"Absolutely creepy AF," Keela supplied.

"Alright, everyone," Professor Lupin said, drawing the attention of the class. He was standing right beside the wardrobe. "In this wardrobe," he tapped in fondly and it gave a responding jangle, "there is a creature called the boggart. Dreadful creatures that like dark, enclosed spaces like the cracks behind doors, the slip of darkness beneath your bed. But the very first thing that we must know before we can begin to combat this is: What is it? What can it do to disarm and delay us?"

No one answered. Finally a Hufflepuff girl across the room raised her hand.

"Is it like a runespoor?" she asked, hopefully.

Professor Lupin seemed to consider, tipping his head this way and that before giving an apologetic smile. "No not at all, Miss Gengrin."

Across the room, George caught Clara's eyes and rolled his own.

"Boggarts take our fears - our deepest secrets and they use it. They make us see and hear and face our own monsters. And they feed off of it," he ended simply, pausing briefly before smiling again. "Now, who's first?"

Slowly, the students were shuffled into a disorganized line and Professor Lupin gave a few more instructions. Clara stared down at her wand, unsure. She had no idea what her deepest fear was. Maybe… Well, she didn't particularly like flobberworms. They were relatively harmless but she still got itchy and sick when she was around them. A sort of panic set in as she saw Keela go up, she was only two ahead of Clara. She needed to find out or she would be completely blindsided.

"Don't over think it, Clara love." The french witch glanced up at George's soft tone. "There's no right or wrong. You're safe in this room and if that boggart turns into anything nasty I'll be the first one up there."

"Miss Deschamp." Clara flinched, staring up at George for a moment more before she finally forced herself to turn and take an uneasy step forward.

All she had to do was turn her fear to a .

"Take a deep breath, Miss Deschamp," Professor Lupin called as the boggart began to shake, darkening and curling into itself. Clara's want pinched painfully into her palms and she clutched it to her chest. She didn't even want to blink. Her breath quivered out of her as it settled to the ground and began to take shape.

No one moved. No one breathed. Everything was silent except for the moaning sobs that erupted from -

Clara choked, her hands flying to her lips as her knees buckled.

The thing about fears is that the deepest ones aren't always at the surface of one's personality. And a dislike is not a fear. A person's deepest fear isn't something that needs to be said or chided on - it's just there, waiting in the darkest part of the mind.

"Oh my god," he heard someone whisper from behind her but her mind was too focused on the blinding terror - a terror so real and breathtaking that she couldn't help the scream that was bubbling up.

"You did this." It was a deep, guttural voice that shrieked along her ears. Definitely not her father's but her mind didn't register it as she gasped, flinching away.

Her mother's face was buried in the creased folds of Annabelle's robes, her silvery hair tangling over her body as she gave a bone shattering sob. Her sister - _Annabelle, Annabelle, Annabelle,_ her mind whispered urgently - so painfully dead. She forced a hand to her eyes, pressing hard as she rocked. Annabelle's eyes, wide and stare. _Accusing_.

"IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU!" Clara whimpered, hearing the pounding steps of her father advancing on her. He's right, her brain whispered to her before everything went silent.

Clara didn't realize that anything had changed - that the boggart, her fears - had gone back into it's dark hole. She was still trapped. Still there with her sister's accusing gaze.

* * *

 _You guys did amazing with the follows and favorites last chapter! Please this chapter give me a little review of what you think, what you like, anything. I really want to hear from, y'all._


	6. Chapter 6

_This chapter is a bit short but I think it's needed and substantial enough to be alone._

* * *

 _Chapter Six: The Quiet Religion of Clara Deschamp_

Long ago, when Clara Deschamp was but a child her mother had brought her into her garden and set her on her lap. This wasn't the first time she had been allowed into her mother's garden nor would it be the last but each time was something that Clara would always remember to be magical. Although she would never openly say it, her mother had always held a sort of enchanting beauty, something that transcended the physical and went into something utterly bewitching. _Magic_ , Clara small mind would supply.

Mysterious and somehow dangerous, Mrs. Deschamp's garden held all the best herbs and remedies that a witch would ever need. Cauldrons bubbled and brewed quietly in hearths set throughout the cobblestone greenhouse, situated beneath vines and brush so thick that only spells could keep them from catching fire. It was a place that Clara was sure the fairies kept home.

And her mother… Clara turned her young eyes to her mother - her mother who moved with such elegance that it made her feel clumsy and foolish - Her mother was the queen of them all, Fae and witch alike.

"I have something to tell you, _mon canard_." Clara shifted on the long bench that looped the tea tables in the garden, staring, open mouthed up at her mother as she moved from making tea to sit beside her daughter. For a moment, Clara was distracted. She almost seemed to float as she came toward her and for a moment Clara was struck dumb with longing. She wanted to be like her mother. More than anything, she wanted to throw away her tan skin and paint herself the same glowing ivory as her mother. She would give anything - _anything_ to be as her mother was.

"Clara dear." A light tap on her chin brought her back to herself and she abruptly sat up straighter, reminded of the etiquette classes that her Papa had insisted that she go to. Softly, her mother smiled before setting a plate of warm cookies in front of her. "You're father and I have something rather exciting that we've wanted to tell you."

"Papa?" Clara questioned, her amber eyes widening as they swept around the garden, expecting her bulky, hulk of a father to jump from one of the flower bushes.

"Well, I guess just me," her mother laughed, her eyes crinkling. "I have wanted to tell you, _mon canard_."

"You can tell me anything," Clara whispered solemnly causing her mother to laugh again and run a hand over her curls.

"Yes, I suppose I can." Her mother hesitated for a moment before drawing her closer. "Have you ever thought about - Well, have you ever been lonely?"

"No," Clara said bluntly, staring up at her mother who winced.

"Well, I'm sure that you've wanted someone to play with…"

"No."

"I…" Her word wonder off as she searches in vain. Eventually, her fingers grasp out, catching hold of Clara's to draw it nearer, press it to her stomach and smile. "Soon you will have a companion, mon canard. Someone to share your thoughts and feelings with. Someone for you to take care of."

Slowly, Clara drew her hand away, staring unseeingly at the flowing chiffon of her mother's dress, situated to delicately around her stomach.

"A...baby…" Clara whispered, her mouth working around the words.

"You will be so happy, _mon canard_ ," her mother promised, drawing her into a strong hug.

But Clara wasn't. She wasn't happy at all. She didn't know what she was but she knew for certain that the emotions swirling, so ugly and vile in her stomach, were not the swells of happiness.

At the age of six, Clara felt the hideous tangle of hatred and fear. Fear that someone would take her place, steal the love of her parents. And hatred that such a thing could ever exist.

Annabelle Deschamp, born second daughter to Willa and Alicio Deschamp was… perfect.

She did not scream nor fuss and her gaze was straightforward and honest. And Willa and Alicio loved her with a fierceness that burned Clara to her very core. Every moment that they held her and whispered her virtues into the top of her head as she slumbered quietly, ate away at Clara with a vengeance that scared the little witch to her very core.

She despised her sister for everything that she could never possess - all the things that made Annabelle her mother's daughter and shoved Clara farther and farther away.

"You were always so loud, _mon canard_ ," her mother gushed to her, cradling Annabelle with a tenderness that made Clara's heart squeeze. "It was always such a struggle to soothe you…"

Clara winced, drawing back into the door of the nursery as her mother cooed down at the little baby in her arm.

As the years furthered and her sister grew, her likeness to their mother only sharpening, and with it a deeper darkness began to form inside Clara. Hideous and wretched, she could feel it beating inside her like a living organ as she watched her sister play and laugh. Everything she did, every movement that she made was graced with a elegance that Clara could never hope to possess. As much as a flower is the result of a seed, Annabelle was their mother's daughter.

And it hurt Clara more deeply than she could ever express.

When Clara was small, there was but one religion that must be followed and that was the religion of Willa Deschamp. She was everything - everything that Clara ever wanted to be and thought that she could be. To Clara, whose small life had been held around this one holy thing, the sight of something that could touch it and speak to it was the most painful thing that she had ever endured.

It was at the age of ten that Clara began to wish.

Snuggled beneath her covers, she would squeeze her eyes shut and childishly call out into the world. There were no words to her wish - none that could grasp what she wanted - only the rhythm of her own selfish wants, drowning out everything but that one singular beat. And that was how she would fall into her restless sleeps. Calling out - not for her sister to disappear, never for that - for her sister to just be a little bit... _less_.

The visions started when Annabelle was six, coming in the forms of lucid dreams or hallucinations brought on by fever. At first, they were small. Little things like backing away before a cup went clattering to the ground or running to the door before anyone else had heard it ring. Both Willa and Alicio thought it was a blessing.

But eventually all blessing give way to curses.

In the night, Clara would wake suddenly to the screams of her sister shaken from another dream. Then the dreams moved to the daylight. Fever followed the youngest Deschamp like a shadow, close behind and barely touching. The young witch who had wished so hard watched as her sister crumbled, reduced to hacking sickness and thin periods where she couldn't keep down food for the visions.

Desperate, her parents searched for a way - some cure. They brought magicians from all of France - even reaching to the United States where stricter minds were at work. But there was no cure for talent and that was how they viewed it. Annabelle Deschamp had the sight and even though she would never be able to speak on her visions, no magical minded creature would ever be able to rip it from her.

An agony grew inside Clara. Every day was put to the task of trying to undo the curse that she had set upon her family. Her hands blistered and burned from the cauldrons that she set to burn. Her eyes swelled from the hours that she spent tearing through books. Nothing worked. _I wish it all away_ , she would cry at night, grasping out at the universe.

But what is done can never be undone.

Eventually, Clara's cries subsided, her heart filling over with a dull ache that drove her to softness. She stopped wishing. She stopped doing many things, choosing instead to live in the pursuit of her sister alone. Whatever she would become, whatever darkness that had already corrupted her heart, Clara promised that her sister would never feel it again.

That was the last time that Clara ever wished.

* * *

 _Last chapter I was a bit disappointed by the lack of reviews and follows/favorites so please so me a little bit of love? I get emotional like that._


	7. Chapter 7

_Hey, everyone! I know it's been a while so I'm just dropping in to say I am so, so sorry! Yikes! It just got away from me. Anyway, I hope you like it and please follow/favorite!_

* * *

 _Chapter 7: Defend Yourself_

"Usually," Professor Lupin was looking at Clara rather sadly. It was an emotion that she was growing accustomed to since the unfortunate happenings in his class weeks before. It was like everyone knew something about her that she hadn't given them.

For the last three weeks, she had been doing a rather fine job at hiding in the owlery, slipping up the stairs immediately after classes. Food had been hard to come by that first week but she had eventually seen a pair of sixth years tickling the fruit that was beside the Hufflepuff entrance and discovered the kitchen just beyond. From then on, it had been smooth sailing. Clara Deschamp was rather adept at dodging people and she had found that Hogwarts had more than enough hiding places.

The lines in his face deepened for a moment before he turned away, looking at a rather boring chart of incantations behind his desk. "Usually, having a group distracts the Boggart enough so that there are a few seconds of… disorientation." He turned back around and something in his eyes made Clara wince, recoiling into the stiff wood of the chair beneath her. "But… sometimes… a fear is so acute that it just latches on."

Clara took a breath. Then another one, trying to ignore how painful even that was. There was something about the pain - the pain of having it so blatantly laid out to her. That her sister dying. That her parents would inevitably blame her. There was something about it being labeled like that that made it so… _wrong_. It wasn't just a _fear_. It wasn't the jitters that you got when you got too close to the edge of a cliff. Or the scream that built inside you when you say the hair on a spider's leg.

It was the _truth_. It was like having your toes on the edge of that cliff constantly waiting for the rocks to give out. It was what Clara grew with. It was a part of her twisted soul like anything else.

"With all due respect, Professor-" Clara started in, bracing herself with a false smile.

"You've been avoiding your friends." There was something sardonic about his smile - something that made the silver haired girl blink. Heavily, Professor Lupin sat into his creaky chair, a few stray papers fluttering to the floor. "That red haired girl started cursing when you swept out last class. She grabbed Mister Vansteen by the collar and started growling at him like a rabid dog. And then Mister Weasley…" Professor Lupin clicked his tongue sharply. "He's been rather moody lately. I've heard that his Quidditch practices haven't been going so well. Just yesterday Oliver Woods came storming into the castle with a bloody nose. Apparently a stray bludger." The pointed look that he was flashing was enough description for Clara.

It had been fairly easy to avoid Keela and the Vansteens - even the Weasleys who seemed to pop up all over the school. Afterall, Clara only had three classes on off days with them since she had been enrolled in higher level classes otherwise. And of those classes, Herbology was the only one where they were grouped up. All she had had to do was stick rather close to Kenneth Towler. Sure, he hadn't stopped jabbering on but he also hadn't once brought up the boggart - which was all that anyone had wanted to talk to her about for the past three weeks.

"We've talked," the French witch edged, shifting uncomfortably as Professor Lupin's brows raised to nearly touching his hairline. "We have!"

They had not. Aside from the brief exclamations of relief and pity that had occurred upon Clara waking up in the school's infirmary after apparently fainting, she had skidded around corners to avoid them. She didn't want to talk about it. She didn't want to even think about it.

"I haven't only brought you here to inquire about your friends, Miss Deschamp." A folder that was sitting in front of him fluttered open, landing on a rather unflattering picture of her. "You aren't doing well in my class," he said bluntly, making her wince. "You've shied away from every physical demand to use your wand in any in-class work and although your test scores are rather good your essays… are lacking."

Clara spluttered, alarm bells going off in her mind. All of her essays had been at least five pages long! She had gone into mammoth detail on the African erumpent, a creature that they had discussed briefly a week ago.

"You said in your last essay that-" He paused, clearing his throat as he shuffled around a stack of papers. " _The African erumpent is a docile creature that has great power - for certain - but is as soft as a kitten. It rarely - if ever - attacks and should be protected. Instead, they are hunted like common beasts of burden."_

He looked to Clara expectantly.

"What do you expect me to say, Professor?" Her cheeks had gone a riotous red, her curls frizzing to poof around her face like an angry cloud.

"Erumpents are classified as wizard killers," he said slowly.

"An unjust classification!" she seethed.

"They are not ' _soft as kittens'_ as you so elegantly put it."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "I have been to the planes where some reside and I can assure you that they do not deserve to be labeled as killers. If an animal is poked and prodded, beaten and taunted enough that it lashes out then I would say that the one holding the whip is the killer."

"Their horns have a fluid that can cause anything it impales to explode," he said blandly.

Clara had, unfortunately, had this argument many times before. Mainly with her father and sometimes with his colleagues. All had ended with Clara saying something unreasonable and then being banished to her room for a month.

"How could I forget?" she sniped. "Every year they are hunted down for that very fluid and dismembered for nothing more than their horn. Disgusting."

"Your essays are always like this, Miss Deschamp," Professor Lupin sighed, sitting back in his seat.

"I don't particularly see why portraying animals how they truly are is a detriment."

"It is when you are trying to _analyze_ deadly creatures." Clara's eyes hardened at the term: _deadly_. Clara Deschamp was a firm believer that there were no deadly creatures. Just ones that were pushed to a point of no return. Something in her expression made Professor Lupin sigh. "Your essay grades are passing, Miss Deschamp. But your class participation scores are bringing you down to nearly failing. You must use your wand and… _Defend yourself_."

It was that concept right there that had made her shrink back into herself, the earlier rage flickering and dying. She wasn't particularly adept at… defending. At Beauxbaton, it was… Well, there was a softer way to go about defeating against enemies.

"I…" She struggled for a moment, before meeting his gaze almost desperately. "I've been doing the assignments."

"Pulling out your wand and standing there doesn't count, I'm afraid. You must cast some sort of spell against-"

"I don't want to harm creatures that are just reacting to being captured."

Professor Lupin stared at her for a moment before giving a deep sigh, pinching his eyes shut before rising from his seat.

"You're smart, Miss Deschamp. If you keep refusing to protect yourself, however, I'm afraid that you will fail this class." Clara took a deep, shuddering breath, wanting to say more but unable to find the words. Instead, she stiffly got to her feet, bowing her head slightly before she quickly left.

It shouldn't have come as such a surprise. Clara had known from the beginning that this would be her least impressive class. If it wasn't already apparent enough, Professor Lupin's constant stare was reminder enough. The feeling had seemed to transcend to all of the teachers. Just the other day Professor Sprout had sniffed as she tried to manhandle a bubotuber while Kenneth squeezed out a copious amount of yellow-green pus.

A gust of icy air blew the french girl's hair into her eyes, making her give a returning sneeze and then hurriedly dig around in her satchel for her yellow and black scarf. It had been left, warm and dry by her bedside every morning.

Snow fell in swooping gusts down around Hogwarts, blanketing the school and threatening to knock any student that was passing outside right over. At the moment, there weren't very many people around at all. Most had gone back to their common areas or were now tucked away in their rooms, doing homework or maybe talking to their roommates. Professor Lupin had told her to meet him directly after her classes had ended which was a bit of a relief for Clara since she was still trying rather hard to avoid everyone.

Clara stopped, staring down at the school ground from a window that was situated at the perfect view to catch the whomping willow, all bogged down with feathery white snow and silent. The sun was starting to set, causing the lights in the school to flicker to life - although candles always seemed to be alight somewhere or other in the school. Nothing like Beauxbaton with its natural light and eery, almost otherworldly white glow.

The truth was that even Clara didn't completely understand why she was being such an utter coward. Maybe, she thought, it was some deep-seated fear that was just awoken inside of her. People had looked at her like that before. When Annabelle first got sick they had gathered around her some days and spoken to her as if they offered their sympathy then maybe - _maybe_ \- Those days had been long and hard.

At first, she had believed them. When they had told her that Annabelle would get better, that they would find a doctor to help, that everything would be _just fine_ \- She had made herself believe. Admitting that nothing would be better and no one could help would be so much worse than just playing along. It would mean that she would have to accept full responsibility. And she hadn't been willing to - not at first. Not when there may have been some other option.

Seeing them - all of the stares and the whispers - it had brought her back to a place that she had thought she left behind. It ate away at her in a way that she didn't think it would.

"Coward," she whispered softly, her breath fogging the glass for a moment.

"They say he's making his way to France, what I've heard." A boy with a patch of well-kept blonde hair walked past me, his bag nearly colliding with my own. From his robes, he was a Ravenclaw, probably making his way back from the library by the roll of parchment and ink that was smeared through his hand.

"Ah, that's utter tripe," snipped a petite Ravenclaw with severe frown lines marring her face. "Everyone always expects escapees to go to another country. He's probably in some muggle town, living like a pauper. That would be the smart thing to do."

Clara kept her eyes on the window, the amber glow reflecting eerily back at her in the glass. But her ears were peeked, an odd sort of tightness making it hard to breathe. An odd rushing filled her ears as they continued down the hall. Since Sirius Black's escape from Azkaban there had been barely a day that went by that wasn't filled with these sorts of rumors.

"Do yah think that he's gonna go back for Lestrange?" Clara's heart seized at the name, her stomach rolling.

The Lestranges came from a line of pureblood French witches and wizards. Clara shut her eyes tightly. Although distantly, the Deschamps were related to that line. Through blood, this made her a distant cousin to Sirius Black himself. Dizzily, she clutched at the window sill. Her father had told her to never mention this - never speak it to another wizard. The Lestranges, like many other pureblood families liked to keep within the magical ties. It was no different for the Deschamps.

Although distant, her family had kept very close ties with the Lestranges. Even her father's brother - Clara shivered, turning quickly from the window and rushing to the Hufflepuff common area. Bellatrix Lestrange had only married into the family out of convenience. She was just an in-law - But Rodolphus was still alive - still sending constant letters to her family. And Rabastan, his brother was alive as well. All three were tied together in some miserable little web with Rodolphus and Bellatrix tied together in marriage and Rabastan slithering along with them.

If Sirius Black had escaped than that meant that he might be seeking shelter somewhere. If he found out that her family was in England…

"DESCHAMP!" Two shocks of red hair battle the candle light, turning shades of gold and red. George and Fred - Clara winces, pulling up short, her books clenched tightly to her chest. It's a straight hallway. If she was a bit more shameless perhaps she'd be able to bring herself to dash down it - in plain sight. A bigger part of her nudges back against the instinct though - something akin to shame.

Trudging along, dirt and sweat making their hair fly in odd directions, they looked more worn than Clara had seen them. Although, as George got closer she suddenly made out the brooding tilt to his brows and the darkness that had turned his whiskey eyes into burning embers. She had been ignoring them for the past few weeks - why? Because she was embarrassed. Becuase she was scared?

"Have you-"

"I've been ignoring you!" The words burst from her lips so quickly that she jumped, blinking in surprise before barreling on recklessly. George's eyes widened slightly - she was only staring at him. Why was she only staring at him? "I was embarrassed and - and ashamed and I didn't want to have to - to tell you all the awful things - why the boggart-"

Desperately she tried to find the words - something to explain what had happened after that first class. But she still couldn't explain her fear - how the boggart had torn open a part of her and bared it to a class of strangers. How she just wanted to hide from it all. But she couldn't talk about it yet. She couldn't reveal how awful and twisted she was.

So instead she stood there, staring pathetically up at the twins, her fingernails digging at the edges of her books.

"Do you want to watch a practice?" Shock made Clara take a step back, finally tearing her gaze from George to blink up at Fred.

"Practice?" Honestly, she was a bit unsure if she had heard him right.

A sheepish grin lit his face, an odd sort of twinkle flecking in his eyes. Beside him, George sighed, some of that anger dissolving with it.

"We've started Quidditch practice - first game is nearly here." Fred winked conspiratorially, seeming to be oblivious to her utter confusion. "Next one is in a couple of days. Figured since we didn't get the life sucked out of us by that nasty dementor that you might be our lucky charm. You'll come won't you?"

Clara didn't know what to say. She didn't even fully know if they had been mad at her or…? No, she didn't know anything when it came to the Weasley twins, it seemed. George still hadn't said a word, his brows furrowed as he rubbed a hand over his neck.

Dumbly, she nodded, not trusting herself to speak coherently.

"Good." With a smirk, he passed by, leaving George and Clara alone in the long expanse of the hallway.

Seconds ticked by as the silence grew more and more unbearable.

"I'm so sorry, George," Clara finally whispered, unable to take it one more second. His eyes flicked to meet hers, the softenness there taking her breath away for an instant.

"You're too soft, Clara," he murmured, his amber eyes keeping hers. Slowly, he moved to stand just in front of her, his lean figure towering over hers. "You don't need to hide from me. My brother and I are your friends."

Blinking up at him, standing close to him like this made her head seem… fuzzy. Like she had caught a fever. Georges' eyes seemed to burn in the candlelight, his hair falling this way and that.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again, dumbly. What else could she say? "I wish I could explain-"

"If we're your friends then you don't need to," he cut her off, looking somehow sad at her statement. Quietly, he continued, "You don't need to explain anything to me, Clara."

Hesitantly, Clara opened her mouth. Then closed it again. There wasn't anything that she could think to say.

Slowly, a smirk curled his lips. "See you at practice, Clara love. Wear something red."

He left her standing there, still blinking up at where he had been.

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